


turn me on with your electric feel

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which harry fucks a girl in his range rover but also a bed but that’s implied (another second person fic a la <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/747368">this one</a> )</p>
            </blockquote>





	turn me on with your electric feel

It’s a Saturday and you’re not sure why you’re in a shoddy sports bar in Boston.

When you’d agreed to visit your friend so she didn’t have to spring break alone, you didn’t know that that would entail going to a loud, smelly, and obnoxious _sports bar._ But then you remember exactly what kind of girl your friend is, and from your spot at the bar you turn around to see her sitting on the lap of an obvious Bostonian boy, considering the fact that he looks like he’s been raised on nothing but Red Sox and six packs, and you shake your head, turn back around to continue nursing your beer and contemplate leaving via cab. 

You take it something extremely interesting is happening in the game, because the bar and is getting extra rowdy - slamming fists on tables and yelling obscenities, the whole lot - but you never understood baseball, so you wouldn’t be able to tell the cause of the uproar if someone held you at gunpoint. The last sip of your beer slides down your throat and you set the bottle down, stare at it, seriously weigh the pros and cons between getting another or upping your ante for something harder when a voice catches your attention 

It’s deep, rumbling and slow, like it starts in the owner’s chest and mulls around a bit in the air before deciding to be heard. And there’s an accent; not a drawling Massachusetts one, but one from home, the place you call home now, overseas. You look up from your bottle and to your right and you’re met with a truly gorgeous profile. 

The nose is strong - eyelashes long, lips full, and it’s all topped with a mess of curly hair, which the owner has pushed back in the front, off of his forehead. 

You want to say something, want to start a conversation so you can at least see this stranger with the honey voice head on, and you quickly go over the pros and cons in your head. Pro: he might walk away as soon as he gets his drink; might disappear into the crowd and you might never get to know if he has brown eyes or blue eyes or green eyes…. 

And before your brain can come up with a proper con, your mouth is moving, because for some reason knowing what colour eyes this stranger has is enough to break most of your pre-established social rules. 

You lean to your right into his shoulder, and say in a slightly lifted voice that he doesn’t sound like he’s from around here, and then he’s turning around to face you and the answer to your wondering reveals itself to be green, _green, he has green eyes and they’re shining._

His lips turn up in a smile and you look at them. Look isn’t really an appropriate verb, because you didn’t stare but you did more than _glance_ , and he notices, because his smile grows to show teeth and you look back up to his eyes. 

He still hasn’t answered your conversation starter, so you take it upon yourself to say you assume he’s not from here. The bartender returns then and sets his drink down in front of him (whiskey and coke), and he lifts the glass to his mouth and takes a sip before he answers. He says he’s originally from England, a place in Cheshire called Holmes Chapel, asks if you’ve ever heard of it, and you smile and nod, tell him how you’ve relocated to Manchester since graduating secondary a year early. He nods and takes another sip of his drink and you glance at your beer bottle and call the bartender around to order another. You assess your level of drunk as being considerably warm and if you plan to have any progress with this pretty stranger you’ll need a bit more liquid confidence. 

Turning back to him, you state your name, and he looks at you with a whisper of a smile. He calls himself Harry Styles and you repeat it, let the name roll around your tongue and decide that it’s pretty, that he’s pretty, and pretty people with pretty names make you excited. 

Your beer is set down in front of you and you grab it without looking away from him. You watch him pick up his glass and drink the remainder of his whiskey and coke, watch his throat twist and his Adam’s apple bob as the liquid runs down to warm his belly, and this is only your third beer but you feel a bit drunk. And you’re good at holding your liquor, you take pride in the fact that you can drink like a frat boy and get only minorly drunk, but the simple presence of Harry Styles has your blood getting warmer, has it thrumming. 

He licks his lips after he finishes and sets his glass down, folds his hands on the bar top and looks at you intently. He’s just _looking_ and his gaze is fierce and his green eyes are boring into yours and this would make you extremely uncomfortable rationally if it didn’t make you extremely uncomfortable in another way. 

Suddenly, he chuckles and looks around to his hands. He apologises for staring and says he was only doing so because you’re very pretty. And you can feel your cheeks warm so you try and hide it by wrapping your lips around your bottle and finishing off your beer. And he’s watching you again, watching you drink and his tongue darts out to wet his lips again quickly and you look away because it doesn’t make _sense_ , irrationally hot it feels to have this so called Harry Styles stare at you and say nothing. 

Your bottle makes a light clunk on the bar top and you make at conversation again, asking him what’s made him wander so far from Cheshire and he chuckles again, tells you he’s enrolled at Harvard for law and you nod approvingly, wouldn’t have pegged him as the lawyer type but would love to see him in a suit. He asks you if you’re back from Manchester to visit family and you roll your eyes, point to your friend who’s currently shoving her tongue down Boston Boy’s drunken throat, and say that you’re supposed to be having an enjoyable spring break with a high school friend but that doesn’t seem to be in the plans for tonight. You’re about to start ranting about how you’re not sure you even want to venture back to her apartment when Harry cuts you off and asks if you want to head out with him. 

Your body gets ahead of your brain and you’re up and dropping bills on the bar before you’ve even said yes. 

-

You think that maybe Harry Styles comes from a privileged background. You’re only judging my the pristine Range Rover he drives and the swanky gated community he pulls up to, but you know not even a Harvard kid could afford this on their own. Unless they sell drugs the side. Or kill people for pay. 

His townhouse stands alone, separated from its neighbour by a small bit of yard. He pulls up into the driveway and you look up through the windshield at the blue walls and red shutters. When he turns the car off and the last parts of the MGMT song he was playing fades into silence, he lets out a breath, like he’d been holding it, and awkwardly promises you that he’s not a rapist. 

And you’re not sure if it’s the comment or the fact that he seems nervous because of you or maybe it’s simply because his lips look especially full and red in low lighting, but you’re suddenly surging forward and kissing him. He’s slow to respond at first, maybe surprised by your forward-ness, but when he does respond, _oh._

Because it’s like his mouth was _made_ for kissing, and if he’s so good at just this, then you can only imagine all the things his mouth can do elsewhere. 

Your hands are on his face, the pads of your fingers pressing against his cheeks, and his hands go to your sides as his tongue runs along your bottom lip. And he’s pulling you across the centre console and onto his lap as you open your mouth, and his tongue is exploring and learning quickly what makes you shudder and when he runs the tip of his tongue behind your top teeth, you whimper and move your hands to tangle and pull at his hair. 

You can hear the sounds your mouths make as they move against each other and it sparks heat in your gut. You don’t realise you’re grinding down on his lap until he digs his fingers into your hips and makes a growling noise low in the back of his throat.

You’ve never fucked around around in a Range Rover but there’s a first time for everything. 

He releases your mouth with a light smack and you pull his t-shirt off, toss it in the backseat and run your hands down his chest, because he’s got tattoos there that you didn’t notice and you like them. 

He leans forward to suck on your neck and you pant, hands sliding up his neck to get back in his hair. He hums when you tangle your fingers in the curls, traces his teeth over your collarbones, and you bite your lip and circle your hips on his lap. You’re wet and you can feel it and you need him soon. He groans and drops his head back on the seat and he looks at you and his pupils are blown and _yes, good, you need this._

His hand goes between the door and driver’s seat and then the back is dropped and he’s lying relatively horizontal and you lean forward and kiss his bottom lip. Your hips are still working and his breath is coming out in short puffs and you’re both still in your jeans and you mentally decide that that won’t do. You move to undo your button and his hands shove your away and do it instead. You swing a leg back over his lap to sit in your own seat and you’re hurrying to get your jeans off and so is he and really, fuck skinny jeans, and fuck him for wearing them twice as skinny as should be acceptable (but really, fuck him, because it’s not fair that his legs are so goddamn arousing) and finally the pants are gone and he’s hard in his boxer briefs and you yank your shirt off and silently thank whatever force willed you to actually match your underwear with your bra. 

Though it’s not like that mattered much, because they’re the next thing go. 

And you’re in nothing but your bra and he’s tenting his underwear and you’re back to straddling his thighs and he’s looking at you with that whisper of a smile and you really really want to suck his dick. 

So you do. 

You trace your teeth over the hard outline of it in his boxer briefs and you keep your eyes up so you can see what you’re doing to him; he moves his to the roof of the car and snakes a hand down into your hair. 

Pulling his underwear down to settle around his thighs is like opening a present but minding the wrapping paper. You’re slow with it, pulling them down and breathing hotly on the head that’s curving up to touch his stomach. You’ve never really liked giving head, but you’re acutely aware of how much you really really want to suck Harry Styles’ cock until he comes. 

Licking at the head is like testing the waters. When he lets out a sharp breath through his nose, you just go for it. 

With your hand gripping the base and his hand in your hair, your flatten your tongue and hollow your cheeks and go down until your lips touch your fingers. And you swallow around him and he groans and his voice sounds a bit wrecked already. You blink down to look at his stomach and move your hand, move it to scratch at his hip as you blink back up to look at him and pull off almost all the way before sliding back down. He bucks up into your mouth and you gag and whimper and he does it again. And he’s fucking your mouth, hitting the back of your throat every time, and your eyes are watering and you move your free hand down between your legs because this shouldn’t be as hot as it is but it is and if you don’t get some sort of relief you might scream 

He notices, of course. And he pulls you off his cock by your hair and guides you back up to his mouth. And he praises you, for being so good when you’ve done so little and you almost say as much until you feel a hand that’s not yours go between your legs and - 

You decide then and there that Harry Styles is built for sex. 

His fingers are long and nimble and he slides two in with no warning. And your eyes go wide and your hands dig into his shoulders as you drop your head to his chest and he says lowly that you were wet enough to skip the teasing and you whine and push down on his fingers. He’s moving them fast and you’re having trouble keeping up, and then he’s curving them upward and you let out a broken moan, short and loud and he curses under his breath and grabs for his jeans, pulling out a wallet and then a condom and then fingers are replaced with him and he fills you up so nicely you could cry. But instead, you lift up and drop back down fast and he throws his head back and slides his hands up your back, pulling you down by your shoulders to his mouth. 

Your hips are working and he’s thrusting up and you’re already close. And you would be embarrassed if his breath hadn’t started picking up pace, if his kissing hadn’t begun to get sloppy, if he hadn’t pulled away from your mouth with a rough _fuck_ before lifting you off by your hips then pulling you back down fast. And you sit up and lift your hands to touch the ceiling when he does it again and you groan out a shaky _fuck_ before you’re coming hard, breath catching, and you feel yourself clenching around him and his whole body shudders as he comes and moans outright. 

And you chuckle at him as he opens his eyes, cover your mouth with a hand and lean back. But you lean too far and suddenly the car horn is piercing through the silence and he grabs your hips and jerks you forward and groans because he’s still inside you and you pant lightly but then laugh a bit wildly. And he laughs too and you’re both laughing and he invites you inside and really, how could you say no?


End file.
